


Leftovers

by cloudings



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adopting Dogs, Domestic Fluff, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Living Together, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie cries a lot, Romantic Fluff, Sharing a Bed, Short One Shot, Soft Richie Tozier, U GUYS THIS IS SO GAY AND DOMESTIC????, but eddie does not die, god richie is so gay, richie is kind of suffering from mild ptsd after seeing eddie’s death in the deadlights, ”clown bitch”
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 10:49:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21073655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudings/pseuds/cloudings
Summary: “It’s hard to stay away from him when it’s the only thing that keeps him stable.Everybody seems to have settled back into life so easily. Ben and Beverly are sharing a room now, did you know? Mike’s already booked his flights to Florida and Bill’s catching the bus to the airport at noon tomorrow.Richie’s just floating now, tour postponed and agent fucking pissed at him — andfloating?Probably not the best word to use right now, but fuck you, is what Richie says to that, he’s reclaiming it. That’s right, Richie’s reclaiming the word floating like it’s the wordqueeror something, andfuck you,he can say that too.”Richie can’t forget what he saw in the deadlights, and the echo of Eddie’s potential dying words only seems to quieten whenever Richie’s as close to him as possible.





	Leftovers

**Author's Note:**

> i was absolutely ACHING to write some post-canon fix it where eddie lives !!! i’m sorry this isn’t a part 3 for my other reddie shit but i......needed to write this.. for my soul  
Enjoy!!!!!! :>
> 
> come talk to me on twitter @greyclouding !

In the days that proceed after The Sewer Incident™, Richie struggles to forget. It’s almost as if every moment of his being gets taken; overcome by a ubiquitous sensation that runs his mouth dry and makes his eyeballs wet. Something crunching in his gut. Something choking him. A boa constrictor made of feelings. 

He gets flashes of it when he sleeps. What he saw in the deadlights was not something to share. This, he would keep to his death, and say  _ screw it  _ to all of the other secrets that he’d kept if it meant that this pain never clawed its way out of his throat. Facing it is hard. 

It’s not so bad, other times. Like when he’s with him, for example, and the gnawing twist in his stomach is replaced by the all too familiar butterflies, and the ever-constant banging screams in his head are echoed with laughter at his shitty jokes, filled with  _ fuck you, dude!  _ and  _ like your mom’s much fucking better.  _

It’s hard to stay away from him when it’s the only thing that keeps him stable. Everybody seems to have settled back into life so  _ easily.  _ Ben and Beverly are sharing a room now, did you know? Mike’s already booked his flights to Florida and Bill’s catching the bus to the airport at noon tomorrow. Richie’s just floating now, tour postponed and agent fucking  _ pissed  _ at him — and  _ floating?  _ Probably not the best word to use right now, but fuck  _ you,  _ is what Richie says to that, he’s reclaiming it. That’s right, Richie’s reclaiming the word  _ floating _ like it’s the word  _ queer  _ or something, and  _ fuck you _ , he can say that too. 

*

Eddie’s wife had called him thirty-seven times during the time that they were in the sewer and Richie couldn’t have been certain whether the bile rising in his throat was from the realisation that they’d just killed a monster or that there was another one waiting on the other line in New York. He’d watched the poor man frown as he chucked his phone aside and had to hold his chest in fear of a heart attack. He was old enough to get those now, right? It definitely wasn’t because of the crippling thought that seized his mind of  _ what if?  _

*

He goes to bed the night after Bill leaves and cries himself to sleep. The unconscious mind is not so much better than the wakened. Richie truly wonders what the fuck Freud would have to say if he took a look at the disaster that was his subconscious. Sometimes it’s a death. Sometimes it’s a kiss. The result is all the same. He wakes up with dry tears staining the dark circles beneath his eyes and shrugs it off as a daily skincare routine. 

*

_ Maybe.  _ He thinks  _ maybe _ , sometimes. When he’s looking over Eddie’s shoulder at the endless string of text messages that get read, deleted, read, deleted. When he sees the look of interest that edges his way onto his face when Beverly mentions meeting with her divorce lawyer. When he watches confounding tears seep into the light moisture of his eyes when they’re reflected by the man on the television, sobbing broken words about his murdered lover, a man who looked eerily familiar in Richie’s view, and he wonders. He wonders. 

Maybe. 

*

Mike hightails to Florida with his last moments in Maine being spent laughing at one of Richie’s stupid jokes. They get a little emotional about it, even though they’ve all sworn to stay in touch, for real this time. They even have a group chat. When he’s gone, though, laughter stays behind. Ben and Beverly had heard his joke, too. And Eddie, but he looks like he’s trying not to let laughter slip through his tightly-shut lips, paling them, drawing Richie’s attention to them for far longer than he’s sure Eddie intended. His eyes stay there when they succumb to the fruitful chuckle and Richie only slips back into reality when he feels a slap on his arm. Someone says something about keys. Richie jokes about Eddie’s road rage just to see him burn red again. 

*

The two of them stay awake that night. Ben and Beverly had slipped off to bed together the moment the two of them had started to debate the 0.01% of germs that get away when using shit like hand soap (“What do you mean —  _ shit like hand soap!?” _ ). The screaming is quiet, then; his presence like the silencer on the gun. They talk enough that Richie can tune out the agonising  _ I think I got it, I think I killed it for real —  _ and he only reaches for contact when he can’t forget the sight of it. Eddie stares at his hand when it lands on his forearm. He supposes that he thinks it’s because of the whiskey. 

_ “It’s hard to forget,” _ he tells him, trying not to dent his skin with his bitten, uneven fingernails. Eddie’s look is not filled with contempt, or confusion, or even death. Richie almost cries when a smaller hand rests atop of his own, thumb circling comfort, unknowingly squeezing Richie’s heart tighter than it should. 

*

Sometimes Richie looks at him and wonders how he could’ve possibly forgotten such an expressive person. Eddie wouldn’t even need a flashlight in the depth of the ocean, and Richie tells him so, lighting him up instead with a bursting pink glow. 

He might imagine it when Eddie shuffles closer to him whilst they discuss train times. He might imagine the hesitation in his voice when he asks the dreaded  _ when are you leaving?  _ question. Richie  _ definitely  _ imagines it when Eddie’s eyes linger on  _ his  _ lips, now, with something in his eyes akin to hunger. It can’t be. 

*

Richie cries when he wakes up again, this time Eddie’s name on his tongue in a different manner than a sob. He wants to avoid him after having to wring out his underwear and scrub down his crotch, hands laden with guilt. He can’t. Making his mind believe that Eddie’s alive when all it’s screaming is  _ he should be dead, are you sure he isn’t dead?  _ is difficult enough as it is. Having an orgasm whilst trying to believe it is on another level. 

He can’t look him in the eye for the rest of the day, but he keeps tightly by his side anyway. Even if his head goes all fuzzy and his dick stirs every time he looks up at him through his thick lashes with a grin that can only be described as wicked. It’s despicable, and Richie has half a mind to think that he’s doing it on purpose. He pictures asking him. He wonders which hurts more: his dick or his heart?

*

Ben and Beverly leave. The ride to the airport is loud and the one back to the townhouse is quiet. There’s a song from the 80s playing on the radio that’s somewhat nostalgic. Eddie sings along to the lyrics like a fucking nerd and only pauses to shout at  _ dickheads  _ who  _ clearly don’t even know how to fucking drive!  _

*

When Eddie tells him he’s catching the nine o’clock flight to JFK in the morning, he cries again. It’s kind of absolutely mortifying. He can’t even wait to get back to his room and do it like a normal person. He just stands there, processing the words for a minute or so, and a sob rips from his chest before he can help it. Tears slide down his cheeks like a baby. He reaches for the man in front of him blindly, unsure of what for, and just shakes his head, apologising, pleading. What’s wrong with him? 

Eddie’s arms have changed a lot since they were kids, Richie thinks. They’re no longer skinny and fragile, ready to snap at the slightest push. These arms are ones of a man, now, and they circle Richie like it’s something they do all the time. They beckon him to his chest and there, Richie plants his head, glasses pressed uncomfortably into his nose and getting smudged to high heaven with his tears. Eddie holds him tighter. Richie, through his muddle of upset and half-acceptance, wants to growl at the fact that this dude is fucking  _ forty  _ but still has biceps like he’s in college.

Lips. He’s sure. He’s sure they were lips and he’s sure that they were  _ his  _ because damn him, if he hadn’t spent enough time staring at them lately. They brush the top of his head lightly and it’s enough to be a distraction from his arms, because those  _ lips  _ – those  _ fucking lips  _ had been haunting his dreams and telling him  _ never never never. As if. Never you.  _

He must feel Richie freeze. He pulls back. Richie has never yearned for a presence to return against his skin more. It’s not until he’s smiling at him that he realises that the ever-constant buzzing and screaming has almost completely deteriorated, no longer a background presence, but almost completely gone. 

How could he let this go? 

But then.  _ But then.  _ Richie’s like, 99.9% sure that he’s definitely hearing things — he has to be, because there isn’t the slightest chance in Hell that Eddie just told him he’s coming back.  _ Just going to get my stuff,  _ Eddie tells him,  _ I was wondering, how cheap is L.A? _

Not cheap at all, Richie tells him, too distracted to continue snivelling. He’s not sure if those are tears dripping off of his nose or if it’s snot. There’s a tissue dangling before his face and, there, Eddie behind it, wiping one of his eyes with his own. 

*

They don’t talk about it. Not really. Maybe it’s because they both know that it’s not exactly  _ normal  _ for one guy to give up his marriage and his career and drop literally everything just to move across the country to live with his bro. Richie can’t help but compare themselves to Ben and Beverly. He jokes about that parallel when he picks Eddie up from LAX, when the echo of the man’s hurt had finally,  _ finally  _ gone quiet for the first time in two weeks. Eddie laughs with him. It’s a good change from his shrieks of pain. He tells Richie,  _ Should we get a dog, too? _

_ * _

They get a dog. Richie wants to call her Penny, but Eddie won’t let him, so they come to an agreement and name her Taylor Swift instead. If that isn’t an homage to Richie coming to terms with his worst fear, then he’s not sure what would be. 

Taylor Swift is not a Pomeranian. Eddie had told him on the way to the shelter that he would literally kill him if he even suggested getting a Pomeranian puppy, which Richie kind of gets. Taylor Swift is a Boston Terrier mixed with a King Charles Spaniel and whilst Richie does not advocate the mix-breeding, he can’t deny that she’s the cutest thing that he’s  _ ever  _ seen; except maybe the look on Eddie’s face when he sees her for the first time, and, well, maybe that was a contributing factor. 

The woman who sorts the adoption for the two of them tells them that they make an adorable couple. Richie’s too frozen to correct her and Eddie certainly doesn’t, for whatever reason that may be, and so she stays believing it. Eddie kisses Taylor Swift’s forehead whilst Richie is holding her and the grin on his face doesn’t slip off when he looks up at Richie and tells him,  _ “Myra never let me get a dog.”  _

Let him. Richie hates that woman. 

But the way he feels at the implication that  _ he  _ is Eddie’s new partner is … Conflicting. Warm.  _ Butterflies.  _

_ * _

It’s all over Twitter, the next day. Neither of them have accounts, but Richie’s manager calls him up and shouts at him down the phone for a solid thirteen minutes. Phrases like “ _ This is what you’ve been ignoring me for?!”  _ and “ _ I wasn’t prepared for a coming out ceremony, Tozier! Your publicist and I are going crazy!”  _ are thrown about. He’s not really listening. Eddie’s wearing the shirt that Richie had left out after doing the laundry and he’s not sure how the other man couldn’t know. It’s too big on him. Taylor Swift is drooling on the chest. 

If Richie doesn’t blink for a while, it starts to look like a bloodstain. Right there. Where he’d seen it. 

Then his manager is shouting his name and Eddie is turning to him with a smile so radiant, scar stretched on his face, and Richie can’t remember what the word blood means anymore. 

*

If Eddie minds the paparazzi outside of their house, he doesn’t say anything. He remains quiet and walks through the crowds as he leaves with Taylor Swift to walk her in the park near their house.  _ Their house.  _ He’s seen his name on  _ Fox News _ too often recently to give them any fresh material, so he stays in, orders food to the house every night and gets his groceries delivered, too. Eddie still likes pineapple on pizza. Richie can’t even dislike him for that, and that’s when he knows that he’s doomed. 

He watches him make them both avocado on toast with smoothies every morning (to get Richie to stop eating last night’s leftovers) and can’t help but wonder if he did this for Myra. Eddie’s made more use of his home gym in the past couple of weeks that he’s been living there than Richie has since he’s moved in. He takes to joining him. It’s disgusting. But it makes Eddie smile. Sometimes Taylor Swift sits on his lap when he goes on the rowing machine. That makes Eddie smile, too. 

*

It’s been four months and Richie hasn’t heard the screaming for a while. He guesses that it’s because even when Eddie’s off to job search or take Taylor Swift somewhere, his presence remains behind. He wears Eddie’s cologne without thinking and Eddie’s borrowed most of his shirts at this point. If it weren’t for the size difference, it would be hard to distinguish between the two of their closets. Bill points out some of the freakishly effective cleaning products in the background of Richie and Eddie’s lounge when they’re on Skype with the gang. No matter where Richie steps in their house now, it’s so unmistakably  _ theirs,  _ and Eddie is everywhere he looks. 

The reality of that makes him want to cry again. Richie can’t bear it to be — excuse the cliché — so close, yet so far to his utopia, but the thought of messing any of this up is torturous. 

*

Eddie finds a job that pays well nearby at  _ last,  _ and it suddenly feels ever so permanent. Eddie’s not just staying with Richie until he gets on his feet — he’s found his feet, and he’s planting them here in Richie’s house, on Richie’s couch, on Richie’s lap. Neither of them flinch when he places his hand on Eddie’s leg and rubs it softly, comfortingly, as Taylor Swift rolls over onto her back and Eddie begins to give her tummy tickles. 

It would be physically impossible to hear the screams now. He doesn’t even have nightmares anymore. The sound of Taylor Swift snoring as she snuggles up to his side completely blocks out the screaming rattling in the depths of his brain. It feels locked away. She, and the glass of water that had been brought to him before he’d woken up, are the only reminders that he needs to know that Eddie’s still alive. He’s still here. 

At some point, Eddie gets mad that Taylor Swift spends too many nights in Richie’s bedroom instead of his own. So they begin to sleep in the same bed, instead. Just like that. It’s frighteningly normal. Instead of saying goodnight on the couch, they say goodnight as they settle their heads onto the pillows, hands accidentally touching as they both reach for the dog between them. 

Richie’s glad for Taylor Swift’s intrusion in the gap between them, most of the time; just because the nightmares had trickled away into nothingness does  _ not  _ mean that his dreams had vanished in general. More than once, he awakes with a gasp and Eddie’s name shuddering from his lips, only hoping that the man hadn’t been woken by his jerking movements and frantic breathing. What he wouldn’t give in those mornings to just kick Taylor Swift out of bed and roll on top of the other man, kiss him blue and finish the job that his subconscious had started. 

If Eddie has similar dreams, Richie doesn’t witness them. At least, not knowingly; there’s been a few times that he’s seen him jogging to their bathroom without telling him a simple  _ good morning,  _ but that could have been anything. They’re not teenagers anymore, after all. 

Doesn’t Richie know it. 

He thinks back, sometimes, to their younger years. Still blurry, but clear enough to form an image. Eddie and his arm cast, his short shorts, his temper. The sleepovers that the gang all shared (bar Beverly — because like  _ Hell  _ would any of their parents allow a  _ girl  _ to stay over (if only Richie’s parents knew), sorry, Beverly) and the sleepovers with just the two of them. He has flashes of them underneath the sheets of their numerous forts that would take hours to build and twenty seconds to tear down. He remembers Eddie having to borrow one of his shirts to sleep in, and Richie’s poor, fragile libido not being able to take it. 

He thinks he remembers a pair of lips on his in the scramble of a night of questions that was never mentioned again. 

*

It’s been almost eight months since The Sewer Incident™ when the Losers Club decide to have another reunion; luckily, in L.A. They go for an Italian restaurant, this time (they’ve all sworn off of Chinese food), and Richie and Eddie both order spaghetti. Bill has a lasagna and Mike tucks in to a (frankly, delicious-looking) calzone. Ben and Beverly both share a pizza. There’s ciabatta for the table.

The food brings something out of Richie (and perhaps the wine, too), and he snorts as he watches Eddie slurp the strands of spaghetti into his mouth, gasping, “Eddie-Spaghetti!” to the dismay of their group, who groan with grins but laugh along anyway. 

“You haven’t called me that in twenty-seven years,” Eddie tells him.

“Almost twenty-eight,” Richie says back.

The elephant in the room isn’t addressed. They talk about Ben and Beverly and their home together, and about Bill and his soaring career with his movie star wife, and about Mike and a special somebody that he’d become neighbours with in Tampa. Neither Eddie and Richie’s home lives or love lives are brought up. His frequent mentions in the media aren’t mentioned either. Richie’s not sure whether to be offended or relieved. 

The gang stay over at Richie and Eddie’s place and utilise the bedrooms that have otherwise been left empty. Bill passes out on the couch, so Mike takes the spare bedroom and Beverly and Ben take Eddie’s abandoned room. They don’t mention the lack of clothes in the closet, or the lack of alarm-clock or knick knacks on/in the bedside table (all of which had been moved to Richie’s room). His and Eddie’s routine remains the same: brush teeth side by side, change out of their clothes side by side, and slip into bed side by side. Taylor Swift tends to sleep at the end of the bed instead of between their bodies, nowadays. Richie thanks her in a whisper when Eddie’s not around. 

Richie’s not alone when he wakes up, which is something new; Eddie’s usually making them both breakfast in the kitchen when he finally drags himself out of bed. But he’s not in bed, either. He’s standing at the end of their bed in nothing but a towel, some of his skin glinting from the sun peeking in through their window and from the light in their en suite. Richie doesn’t think he could ever curse his pathetic need for glasses more than this point, and then the goddamn towel  _ drops to the ground  _ as he bends down to pull on a pair of underwear, and Richie startles so fast that he chokes on his saliva. 

The sound startles them both, but by the time Richie has his glasses yanked onto his face, Eddie’s underwear are pulled all the way up. They stare at each other for a moment, or maybe a minute, or maybe ten, and they're only saved by Taylor Swift scratching at the door to be let out. Eddie finishes getting dressed (he’s wearing one of Richie’s shirts again) and opens the door for her. Before he leaves, he asks Richie if he’s coming. 

He tells him that he’ll need ten minutes tops, and his hand is down his underwear before the door is shut.

*

It’s been a year since The Sewer Incident™ and Eddie and Richie are still reaping both the benefits and downfalls of that day. Eddie’s opened up to him about the phantom pain in his cheek that he feels whenever he steps into the shower, and Richie’s told him about the anxiety he feels whenever he’s away for too long. It’s not entirely a lie, but he doesn’t tell him the real reason for it. 

Richie’s comedy career has kicked off again, at last. He doesn’t even need to go on tour anymore. Thanks to the whole gay thing that hit the media, he’s more popular than ever, and  _ Netflix  _ asked him if he’d wanted to do his own show, like he’s John freaking Mulaney or something. He never even has to leave L.A. It’s sort of weirdly perfect (he doesn’t know if he’d be able to leave Eddie or Taylor Swift for long) (he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to go on tour ever again).

So, yeah. Netflix. He’s on fucking Netflix. Eddie will never let him live this down.

It’s a normal day, despite the deadly anniversary. There’s an air of unease about them, and it goes unmentioned until Richie has to bite the bullet. Until then, they go about their routine — Eddie makes breakfast; Eddie goes to work and Richie goes to film; Richie picks Eddie up from work; they head home together. Maybe pick up some takeout on the way back. They don’t today. 

Richie feels like he may break down at any moment. Like Eddie may slip through his fingers at the turn of a head. How do they really  _ know  _ that the clown bitch is dead? How do they  _ know?  _ What if he came back to finish the job he’d started? What if he took Eddie away from him? 

Eddie’s fingers thread through his own atop of his thigh as they sit together on the couch. Richie doesn’t even think much of it as he turns his hand to hold it, not until they’re halfway through the episode of  _ Stranger Things  _ and he’s lost track of what’s happening because of how fast his heart is beating in his chest. He’s pretty sure his hand is now equivalent to a water spring and he’s unsure as to why Eddie hasn’t let go of it yet. He thinks Eddie’s hand might be sweaty too, though, or it might just be that he is  _ really fucking sweaty.  _ Both thoughts make him sweat more. 

The episode ends and Eddie switches the television off. He doesn’t say anything about it, but Richie can feel the way his head turns and his eyes rest upon him. He’s paralysed, no matter how much he may want to meet his gaze. He squeezes his hand and Eddie squeezes back. There’s the sound of the man moving, shifting closer to him. He can feel further dips in the cushions. 

His soft voice says, “Talk to me.”

Richie can’t. He’d sworn to himself.  _ This, he would keep to his death,  _ he’d said.  _ And say  _ screw it  _ to all of the other secrets that he’d kept if it meant that this pain never clawed its way out of his throat.  _

So, he thinks,  _ screw it.  _

He turns his head and Eddie’s comforting smile is enough to give him courage. That smile could make him believe that he was a superhero. That smile could make him believe anything. 

Richie kisses him.

It’s not twenty-odd years of pent up emotion balled up into one kiss. It’s awkward. Eddie wasn’t expecting it and Richie’s pretty sure his eyes are still open. But his lips are so, so soft — Richie’s pretty sure it’s due to the excessive amount of chapstick that he lathers over his mouth at every spare moment, even if Richie makes fun of him for it all the time. He’s dreamt day and night for this very moment. It’s like an actual heaven. 

Richie pulls away to examine his expression. It’s unreadable. There’s definite surprise and his cheeks are flushed, but that could mean anything, really. He takes a deep breath.

“I’m in love with you,” he tells Eddie. It’s like a three hundred stone weight off of his shoulders. At least he’ll know now, he tells himself. 

If he thought he would find an answer to that in Eddie’s face then he would again be proven wrong. His eyes are still wide and his cheeks are still pink, and both go to the extreme at his words but there’s no sign of an  _ answer.  _

They remain looking at each other for however long that may be. Taylor Swift jumps off of the couch to get some food, but it almost feels like she’s rushing to give them some privacy. Richie’s ever so close to making a joke about it, when —

— There’s a set of lips upon his own that somehow feel even  _ more  _ soft, this time, and Richie’s not sure how the fuck that is meant to work, but they  _ do.  _ They’re still holding hands, and so the other one of Eddie’s slides up the side of his face and cups it so gently. Richie’s heart has never, ever felt so tender as it does now. 

His eyes flutter shut and he leans into the kiss like it was all he was made for. His thumb strokes the soft skin of the other man’s hand and he finds himself mimicking him, slipping his fingers into Eddie’s hair and caressing his head softly. Eddie opens his lips further first. Their kiss turns wet. Deep.  _ This  _ is one that is twenty-odd years of pent up emotion balled up. 

Richie thinks he may faint as he hears the first little sigh that he elicits out of Eddie’s mouth. It’s impossible — the whole thing is fucking impossible — but Eddie’s kissing him like he might be in love with him, too. He thinks he may faint when he feels a first brush of tongue against his lips. He thinks he may faint when the fingers on his cheek curl in on themselves and he feels the slight scratch from his nails. It’s so real. 

It’s  _ real.  _ It’s no fantasy. The scratch brings him back and reminds him, grounds him, that this is no illusion or dream or freak mind-bend from a killer clown. 

Richie will deny it if anybody ever asks, but the tears that start to spill over the breaches of his eyes stain both of their cheeks, and Eddie doesn’t even pull away when he feels them on his fingers. He pauses for just a second, takes a deep breath in, and brings him in for another kiss again. Eddie holds him as close as he can at the realisation of his overwhelmed emotions. Shit, he’s practically climbing into his lap. They’re still holding hands. 

He whispers, “Richie.”

“Eds _ .” _

“I love you, too. I love you.  _ Fuck.” _

“ _ Eds,”  _ he gasps, kissing him deeper, rocking his hips upwards. “I love you. I  _ love  _ you _ . Don’t leave me. _ ”

Eddie rambles between their passion  _ never never never  _ and Richie believes him. He loves him.  _ This is real. _

They don’t separate for a long time.

*

Taylor Swift is in the middle of sniffing another dog’s asshole when Richie Tozier gets captured kissing  _ mystery-man  _ on camera. The photo gets blasted  _ everywhere;  _ the hype from the rumours that occurred months ago was absolutely nothing in comparison. 

His show ratings skyrocket and his manager is over the moon. Richie doesn’t even care about any of that. He’s just happy he’s able to kiss his —  _ ahem —  _ boyfriend out in public without getting slurs and possibly rocks thrown at him. 

_ It’s not the 80s anymore,  _ he has to remind himself daily,  _ Bowers is rotting in Hell. He can’t hurt you. _

Perhaps the strangest thing that occurs to Richie and Eddie after admitting their feelings is how oddly normal it feels. Nothing changes. Their domestic bliss stays as such, and only now involves slightly more making out and sucking dick. It frustrates them both, a little bit, how couple-y they’d both seemed and not acted on a thing. 

The Losers aren’t surprised and after coming to several realisations themselves, they can’t blame them. They’re told that a congratulatory reunion is in order and this time, it’s due in Florida. Richie tells Mike he’d rather die. 

When they discuss the wasted years and the hush-hush memories that come back between the both of them, they thrive in it, and sometimes cry (though that’s mainly Richie). It’s still unbelievable, most of the time. 

_ He’s alive. He’s alive and he’s mine.  _

The deadlights, Richie thinks, reflecting on what he’d seen as he picks up Taylor Swift and drops her outside of the room,  _ Can frankly go and fuck themselves.  _

He sends her a wink and kicks the door closed as he turns back to the bed and the body waiting for him. 

Damn _ .  _ He doesn’t think he’ll be hearing the screaming again. 

Well, not that kind of screaming, anyways. 

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on twitter @greyclouding !


End file.
